Like hell you do, Kris thought to herself. Now what exactly have your sources told you?
James squinted through a stream of cigarette smoke, as she crossed the street.
It was instinctive—the sweep of the street, the intersection, the venue, everyone who came and went, drinks in hand, looking to score, or just looking. The evening rush hour was on and it included Brynn Halliday in a black, full-length leather coat that was stark contrast to the blonde hair that spilled past her shoulders.
The screech of tires on wet pavement brought his head up, instinct tightening at his gut. Then he heard the rev of the engine. Headlights swung around the corner, a white van careening through traffic. It was headed straight for the Blue Oyster.
He was already moving. The cigarette exploded in a shower of embers as it hit the pavement. There were startled glances,someone cursed as he pushed past, then a scream as the van jumped the curb, slammed into the half wall at the edge of the patio, and kept coming.
Kris turned toward that sound, then heard her name somewhere among the shouts and screams. A table went over. Headlights came straight at her.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Once, on a trip home from Virginia during college, the commuter train she was on was in an accident.
There was no warning, just a sudden sickening lurch, the sensation of speed, too fast, the sound of steel against steel as the engineer braked too late, a bone-jarring shudder, then the sensation of hurtling out of control, helpless, amid the chaos of shattered glass and terrified screams, passengers flung about like broken dolls. Afterwards, there was an even more terrifying silence, pinned under a seat that had torn loose, staring up at the floor of the car overhead in a world that was suddenly upside down.
She had been one of the lucky ones, escaping with only a few minor scrapes and bruises, but in those moments afterward, pinned in the wreckage as smoke filled the car, instinct was all she had left as she fought her way up out of the debris and twisted metal.
It was like that now—that explosion of light, shattered tables, umbrellas scattered like toys, the smell of oil from the patio lanterns like the smell of fuel oil, and the blood. The patio of the Blue Oyster had been reduced to a killing zone.
James had taken the worst of it, reaching her as the van plunged across the patio, taking her with him on the run, both of them thrown, then rolling as the van scattered tables, chairs, and bodies.
It was over in seconds, the van gone, jumping the steps at the opposite end of the patio, disappearing down the adjacent street.
He kicked a chair away, pushing through the pain in his shoulder, then instinctively rolled to his feet. Keep moving, he told himself. It might not be over.
She was curled on her side, barely moving. He grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Are you hurt?” And when she didn't answer him right away, “Kris!”
She was pale, wild-eyed, stunned, clutching the front of his jacket. He shook her gently. That blue gaze met his, dark, confused, as she fought her way past the shock, past the horror.
“Are you hurt?
Goddammit!She wanted to scream at him, but the words wouldn't come. She shook her head.
“Can you stand?”
What sort of fucking stupid question was that? Then as she tried to stand, she realized it wasn't such a stupid question.
“I've got you,” he told her. “Hold on to me.”
His arm went around her waist, holding onto her, pulling her to her feet as the first sounds of sirens pierced the silence.
All around them, were the first movements of others, while still others lay unmoving, lifeless, a nearby shoe lost in the chaos, a man with blood on the side of his head.
She tried to take it all in, tried to understand. But as soon as a thought was there, it slipped away, refusing to stay in one place, replaced by another that slipped away.
Who would do this? Who would deliberately drive through the patio, then disappear?
“Look at me!” James demanded.
He needed her to focus, to be clear-headed, to think.
“We need to leave, now!”
